


Like living on a cliffside

by GwenChan



Series: Because Fate said so (but we never agreed) [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha America (Hetalia), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta France (Hetalia), Dystopia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Omega England (Hetalia), Rape Recovery, References to The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24054106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: Francis knows something is wrong with Arthur. Just like he knows Arthur would feel better if he'd only admitted it.
Relationships: England & France (Hetalia), Mention of America/England (Hetalia)
Series: Because Fate said so (but we never agreed) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636471
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Like living on a cliffside

Francis is so immersed in "Rapunzel's illustrated adventures" that at first, he doesn't hear the light noise of the nursery door opening and the sound of slippers on the wooden floor; not until one hand comes down to take the book from his hands.

"Oh, Arthur," he says, turning his head towards the newcomer. "Emily is sleeping like an angel, all solved," he adds, indicating the girl with a nod of his head. The kid is all curled up under the covers because, as Francis has revealed, there isn't better protection against monsters.

"He even called me uncle," he adds, with a smile that quickly disappears from his lips just by looking at Arthur. He doesn't seem happy.

"You shouldn't have," he murmurs, his arms tight against his chest. His eyes wander, never stopping to look at him - or anyone else's for more than a few seconds.   
His hair is ruffled, his clothes wrinkled and his shirt is only half-tucked into his pants. They are all signals that only add to the noises Francis heard coming from the living room while telling Emily her goodnight fairy tale.   
Then, there's the alpha smell Arthur always wear. It's unmistakable, even for a beta.

"I didn't mean to impose myself", he shrugs in that neutral way he learnt over time. Omegas and alphas have their equilibrium and it doesn't matter that he, a beta, cannot understand it.   
It doesn't matter how much he may disapprove their dynamics. In the end, it's not up to him to intervene.   
The director at the hospital where Francis does his civil duty has been very clear, even more after an omega tried to escape. On Francis' suggestion, it seemed.  
So Francis nodded and promised to hold his tongue. He knows too well he won't be able to help anyone if in prison or worse.

When Arthur opens his mouth again to speak, he wears the same expression of dozens of omegas before him. It's so clear on their face, the desire to tell what they carry inside and the terror of being reported. That no revelation arrives no longer surprises anyone.

"I - it's getting late. I'll fix you the guest room."

***

Francis is a light sleeper and the guest room isn't far enough to not hear all the noises coming from the master bedroom.

If there's a prize for cowards, Francis has already won it aplenty. He buries his head under the pillow and tells himself it's none of his business.

Only later, there are other sounds he simply cannot ignore, forcing him to get up and go checking. Arthur is curled on the bathroom floor, in his nightgown, eyes glassy. The air stinks, what is left of the dinner floating in the toilet.

"Do you think you're being helpful?" Arthur hisses when Francis flushes the toilet. He takes Francis by surprise, suddenly surging to his feet until his face is only a few centimetres from Francis', hands curled up in fists.   
The air reeks so much of the scent of an angry omega even Francis can smell it. 

Arthur doesn't give him any time to find words to justify or defend himself.

"You wash the dishes. You offer to look after Emily. Every time" - Arthur's voice trembles with anger - "Every time I try to be alone. To get away from him" - Arthur speaks so fast that it's difficult to follow - "You must always interfere. "

He spits it almost in Francis' face, rising to his tiptoes to hoover over him

"I was just trying not to bother you and your husband," Francis finds himself yelling in response, with an irritation coming both from his guilt and from Arthur's ingratitude.  
It feels like the Omega only needed a chance to vomit weeks worth of frustration.

"It wasn't up to you!" he shrieks, marching back and forth. He puts his hands in his hair from time to time. “Maybe I just wanted a way out. Have you ever thought about that? Maybe I wanted to take advantage of having guests at home to have some time to be with someone else! "

"But if you always loathed me."

"Still, better you than him."

It's strange how familiar those words and that expression are. How common is that confused look, the hands pressed almost theatrically onto Arthur's mouth, the same terrified expression Francis has seen in many other omegas.

Arthur's anger melt aways just as fast as it came. He sags again on the floor, his knees tight against his chest like he wishes to hide from the world.   
Francis wishes he could say he learnt what to do in these situations, but every time it's different.

"What do you mean?" he dares to ask, sitting down next to the omega without daring to touch him. Arthur is scratching his scent gland and the bond-mark on it, nails breaking the skin until it breaks and bleeds. Francis doesn't know why, but a moment later he has already stretched his arm to grab Arthur's hand.

When Arthur takes Francis's wrist and presses it on his neck, Francis lets him.   
It doesn't mean anything. Some omegas appreciate the contact with betas, for they are neutral and their touch calm them.

"Sometimes I hate him," Arthur speaks so softly Francis has to hold his breath to hear him.  
"But it doesn't matter." He shakes his shoulders abruptly, slapping Francis's hand away with surprising strength.

"Arthur, what is it?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

If only his gestures weren't contradicting his words so much. Only then maybe, Francis could even believe it. At least pretend. But no matter how much Arthur tries to deny it, he cannot takes back his confession. The words are still hoovering between them and Francis doesn't know if they are more a wall or a chain.

"Arthur" he tries again, reaching out as if he were trying to pet a frightened kitten. He's too slow.

"I'm fine," Arthur insists. "I want to take a shower. Go out," he continues, struggling to his feet. Francis would love not to notice the rivulets of liquid dripping from between his legs.

"I ..." he begins, but no matter what he says. It only makes things worse.

"Didn't you hear?" Arthur snaps, on the verge of recommencing his screaming. "I said get out! Out!"

***

"It's not always like that."

Arthur drops the phrase so out of nowhere, while they are washing the dishes after breakfast, that Francis almost drops the glass he's drying. At first, he doesn't even catch what Arthur is talking about.  
When he does, thinking about the last night is inevitable.

"What? You don't always lock yourself up crying in the bathroom after you have fucked?"

It's cruel, it's the last thing he should say, but he can't help it. It must be because jabs and insults are easy to understand. They give Francis the illusion to be still dealing with the old Arthur, the arrogant and sharp omega, not the man he has become. Even the pretend of calm he insists on showing is different. 

"That was uncalled for," he murmurs, glancing aside. Francis lowers his head in silent apology.   
"You're - you're right. Do you want to talk about it?"

Maybe this time will be the right one. He already happened to stop trying after only a couple of attempts, only to find out asking a third time would've done the trick.  
"There is nothing to talk about."

Or a fifth, a sixth, a twentieth. Francis is about to change approach when Arthur's whole body snaps to attention. For a moment, Francis fears it's Alfred.

Instead, on the kitchen threshold, there's only Emily, already three and a half, in her pyjamas and dressing gown. "Can I have some juice?" she asks, yawning. It's a diversion Arthur doesn't hesitate to exploit. 

"Of course poppet, come here," he smiles, picking her up as he retrieves a sippy-cup and the bottle of orange juice from the fridge. Emily scrunches her little nose. Her sense of smell may have lost the hypersensitivity of newborns, but she's still more perceptive than adults. 

"Something wrong, daddy?" she peeps, with her serious voice and her wide eyes. Arthur stills for a moment, in hesitation.  
"It's nothing, my dear. What do you want for breakfast?"

***

"It's not nice to lie to children," Francis tries again once Emily has been fed with her two slices of toast and strawberry jam and sent to the living room to play. Arthur shrugs.

"We always lie to children."

"Just not to tell them that Santa Claus doesn't exist and that their teeth aren't a currency for fairies," Francis replies. "This is different. I know it's easier to turn away, but think about your daughter. "

He hasn't used that card yet. It's a bit of a low blow, but he's willing to try them all.

"Do you think I don't already?" Arthur says, his voice again on the verge of snapping. Francis shakes his head. When he speaks, he hopes it's soft and understanding.   
"No. I believe you care for her so much you would pretend forever. But you can't go on like this."

"And what if I tell you? What would change? "

“Maybe it wouldn't eat you inside so much anymore. I know ..."

Arthur stops him before he could add anything else. 

"What do you know? Tell me! Do you know what it means that a part of you only wants to die when your partner touches you, no matter how kind he can be or how long you've been together."

  
To say that Francis knows Arthur would be an exaggeration. They have always frequented different companies and the mutual antipathy certainly didn't help. It brings Francis back to another time, when they were still all together, in a free world, between Berlin, Paris and London.   
He also knows Arthur is the kind of person who doesn't reveal his inner feelings if not forced. He knows it requires more patience than a man can have.   
He wants to try, nonetheless. 

"You are right," Francis admits. "I don't know. This is why I'm asking you to explain," he continues. "For Emily," he insists." For you. "

Arthur doesn't snap this time, staying silent as if considering that possibility. It is a long silence, so long that when Arthur finally decides to speak, Francis is certain it is to tell him not to meddle.

"I started it."

It's a good thing Francis is a beta because the more Arthur speaks, bits and pieces, the more Francis only want to punch Alfred in the face. Luckily, the alpha is out to run some morning errands.

He must also remind himself Arthur is not his mate; that to be defended by someone else is the last thing he needs.

He then must hold back from grabbing Arthur by the shoulders to make him stop justifying Alfred. As if it weren't enough already having witnessed how doting the alpha is. Alfred isn't violent, or rude, just a bit too much.

In Francis's eyes, he still has no excuses from what he did to Arthur.

"For God's sake, Arthur. He raped you."

Francis has always been good with words, once, when few sweet nothings were enough to swoop whomever he wanted of their feet.  
With Arthur instead, it seems whatever he says is wrong. The more he tries to fix it, the more he digs his own grave. It's like taking two steps forward and five steps back.

Arthur doesn't even look at him, eyes glued to his knees, hands folded in his lap. "It's not true."

"Yes. it is. You asked him to stop and he didn't."

"No. I told you. I wanted it."

"Did you tell him you wanted him to take you by force?"

"No, of course not. But it was me. I seduced him. I didn't tell him to stop."

"Not in words, but -"

"He just exaggerated a little, okay. He's an alpha. It's normal"

  
They are alphas, it's in their nature. They are alphas, they tend to be a little more aggressive, they don't do it on purpose. Francis is so tired of hearing the same justifications over and over again.  
"We are humans, for Heaven's sake," he roars in frustration. "Not animals."

If Arthur's grip on his cup tightens a bit more, he would break it. "It isn't true," he whispers, face mirroring in the amber surface of cold tea. "Don't insist, I beg you."

  
Francis has seen so many omegas behave the same way that it's hard to decide if this is their nature or if it's just Arthur, with his continuous hiding behind a mask of composure.   
One thing Francis knows, though. Arthur keeps denying everything because if his fiction crumbles, he would drown in despair.

"Sometimes it's nice," Arthur murmurs after a while as if to fill the embarrassing silence between them - or, worse, as if wanting to justify himself. 

"I like it when he hugs me and holds me just a little too tight as if to say he's there and will protect me no matter what ."

He crosses his arms over his chest, rubbing his fingers on his forearms.

"And sometimes just seeing him makes me wants to vomit."

  
Arthur is so close that for a moment Francis just wants to cup his face and kiss him with all the sweetness he can manage.  
He wants to put a hand in his chest, down to the heart, and pull out all the rot Arthur carries inside. He wants to hug him, hold him, and show him how sweet love can be.  
But he knows Arthur would never accept and having yet another person impose on him is the last thing he needs.   
It won't be Francis to take away what little freedom he has left.

Then, he wants to take Arthur away from there. If he was an alpha, he could at least caress the possibility; but he's only a beta, a stupid and useless beta. All he can do is offering useless words of comfort.   
  
"Did you talk to him about it?" It's a stupid question, but he has to ask it.

"Of course not. It wouldn't help. He apologized, you know? I lost count of how many times. And he always tries to be nice. But bonding has made our hormones go crazy. We excite each other and the suppressants are too weak.

  
They both know it's not true, that nothing about bonding has been proven scientifically, but again, sometimes it's better to believe a lie. So Francis decides to let it slide. 

The opening that Arthur has given him is closing, but there is still enough space for Francis to put his hand into it until his fingers close around the omega wrist.

  
"Wait" he calls Arthur back, as he's exiting the kitchen. 

"Fine. It's none of my business and let's admit it's the hormones' fault or that Alfred can't" - as a beta, he struggles to even pronounce that phrase - "control himself"  
He takes a deep breath. "But when you want, know that you just have to call and I'll take you away from here."

"What's this? One of the phrases from your repertoire? "

“No, it's a promise. As a ..." Francis hesitates on the sentence. Part of him still feels something for Arthur, part of him is still convinced that they could be happy together. "As a friend. "

"You know it's not possible," Arthur reminds him, as he hears the sound of a car in the driveway. But then he looks down and speaking softly, almost only lips moving, he adds, "Thank you."

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a bigger picture in an a/b/o verse inspired a bit by The Handmaid tales. It hasn't a clear storyline, as I work with random one-shots, following two main storylines.  
> I think in the end they are all victims, each in their own way.


End file.
